“Right. Except I’m not exactly pursuing my second career.”
“I hear you.”
Kate commented, “This is the only career I’ve got.”
Brenner smiled, then looked at her and said, “You’ve got a lot of guts to come here.”
She didn’t reply, but to set the record straight, I told Brenner, “It was her idea.”
He let us know, “It’s a tough assignment, but you’ll get through it, and you’ll be able to write your own ticket when you get back.”
I replied, “We’re hoping for Afghanistan next.”
He laughed, then said to me, “So you were here in August ’01?”
“Yeah. Forty days altogether. Mostly in Aden.”
“Right. Well, things have heated up a bit since then.” He explained, “Al Qaeda is here.”
I informed him, “They were here when I was here. They blew up the Cole.”
“Right. Well, now they’re all over.” He went on, “If possible, this place has become more dangerous.”
Typical war-hardened vet trying to scare the newbies. I said, “In my day, when we walked down the street in Aden, we had to throw grenades just to go get a newspaper.”
He laughed again and said, “Well, in Sana’a we fire so many rounds from the embassy that we wade knee-deep through the shell casings.”
Kate said, “Please.”
It’s a guy thing, sweetheart.
Anyway, we chatted awhile as we waited for our luggage, and Brenner said to Kate, “Take what I’m about to say as a professional observation-you’re very good-looking, and you have a face that, once seen, is not forgotten. That may be a liability.”
Kate smiled nicely and replied, “That’s never been a liability before.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” said Mr. Brenner. “You should always wear a long head scarf that you can wrap or hold over your face. The Western ladies here find this is a good compromise to the veil.”
“Thank you,” replied Kate a bit coolly.
The carousel jerked to a start and the baggage began dropping out of a hole in the wall.
I’ve never actually seen so much stuff on a baggage carousel-boxes, crates, weird shapes wrapped in plastic, and some of the worst luggage I’ve seen since my aunt Agnes visited from Buffalo. I said, “I hope our chickens made it.”
The Yemenis picked the carousel bare like piranha stripping a carcass.
Our first-class bags were among the last, and Brenner asked, “Is that all you’ve got?”
I informed him, “There is a large cargo ship sailing out of New York with the rest of my wife’s luggage.”
Kate smiled. She loves sexist jokes.
The porter had our suitcases and overnight bags on his cart and we moved toward the customs counters, but Brenner led us directly toward the doors. A customs guy in uniform hurried toward Brenner, and Brenner held out his passport from which protruded an official document called a thousand-rial bank note-about five bucks-that the guy snatched as he waved us through.
Brenner commented, “This is one of the worst airports in the world in terms of security and screening. There’s no watch list, so Al Qaeda guys and other bad actors can come and go. Also, you could ship a bomb out of here addressed to someplace in America.”
I said to Kate, “We should have given them Tom Walsh’s home address.”
We went out into the badly lit and nearly deserted concourse, which was as run-down as I remembered it. The few shops were closed, as was the only car rental and the Yemenia airline counter. I saw a big sign that said, in English and Arabic, NO KHAT CHEWING. I’m not making that up. But smoking was okay, because a soldier had a butt in his mouth.
We went through the exit doors, and at the curb were three black Toyota Land Cruisers with dark-tinted windows. Standing close to each SUV were two guys toting M4 carbines, who were obviously also DSS, and they were eyeing everything around-especially the six Yemeni soldiers with AK-47s. How come everyone else gets a gun?
Brenner said, “We’re in the middle.”
As Kate and I moved to the middle vehicle, two DSS guys opened the rear doors and we slid in. Brenner got in the passenger seat, and the other DSS guys grabbed our luggage and jumped in the front and rear vehicles. Brenner said to the driver, who was Yemeni, “Yalla nimshee,” which I remembered means, “Let’s go,” and off we went.
Brenner informed us, “These are FAVs-fully armored vehicles-and the glass is bullet-resistant.” He added, “Resistant as in duck. There are two flak jackets in the rear. I suggest you put them on.”
I turned and retrieved the two heavy military-issue flak jackets, which could stop anything from a bullet to antiaircraft fire. I helped Kate into one and put on the other.
This all seemed a little like overkill, but I recalled being met this way the last time, and it was considered standard operating procedure; also known as the embassy covering its ass if something went wrong.
We cleared Sana’a International Airport in less time than it takes to say “Sana’a International Airport,” and we were on the surprisingly decent four-lane road toward Sana’a. This was the way I’d come to Yemen last time, and it was a bit of deja vu-except for being met by Colonel Hakim. More to the point, this was a good introduction to Yemen for Kate, who by now must be thinking, “I should listen to my husband.”
Brenner broke into my thoughts and said, “Half the fun is getting there.”
No, half the fun is me making wisecracks-not you.
Anyway, a rival wiseass was the least of my problems. I asked Brenner, “How long you got left here?”
He replied, “As long as you’ve got left. We’re all leaving together.”
Well, maybe that answered part of the question of who else was on the Panther team.
I suggested, “Let’s wrap it up in thirty days.”
He replied, “Now that you’re both here, that’s very possible.”
I hadn’t yet given Kate the good news that we were here to be Panther bait, and she was missing some of the nuances, so she said, “That’s very flattering, Mr. Brenner.”
He said, “Please call me Paul.”
And call me red meat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There wasn’t much traffic at this hour-it was now 3:55 A.M.-and we clipped along at 120 KPH. The Yemeni driver yawned loudly. The khat must have worn off.
Brenner said to Kate and me, “This is Mohammed. We pay him a dollar an hour to drive for us. Two dollars to stay awake.”
Mohammed laughed, so he understood English, or he’d heard the joke so many times he knew he was supposed to laugh.
I asked, “Why the Yemeni driver?”
Brenner explained, “The Yemeni government now insists that we have at least one Yemeni driver in a convoy at night for our enhanced security.” He further explained, “Partly it’s so we have an Arabic speaker who can talk to the idiots at the checkpoints, or call for police or army backup if we get into a situation.”
I said, “That sounds almost plausible.”
“Right. But it’s bull.” Brenner let us know, “We actually don’t know who Mohammed works for, do we, Mohammed?”
He replied, “I am just a simple driver, sir.”
“Right. And I’m the cultural affairs attache.”
“You are, sir.”
That out of the way, Brenner turned and said to us, “The only incident we’ve ever had happened at this hour.”
Kate said, “Thanks for sharing.”
I asked, “Guns?”
“Oh, right. You want guns.” He passed us a black canvas bag and said, “You’ll carry the M1911 Colt.45 automatic, A1 model.”
I opened the bag and saw the two military-issue automatics, a dozen magazines, two boxes of ammo, two hip holsters, and a cleaning kit.
Brenner asked, “You familiar with these?”
Kate replied, “I’m qualified on this.”
Right. Very qualified. In fact, she killed someone once with a Colt.45 automatic. I assured Mr. Brenner, “I’ve been shot at with this gun.”
“Good. Kate can give you a quick lesson on how to shoot back.”